In last night's dream, as I leave my house I stumble into what looks like Grand Central station and a Hollywood "cattle call" is in progress. (That's a casting session where pretty much anyone can come.) A little girl is sitting on a park bench trying to emote to herself.

Her parents say, she's trying out for this Roman Polanski movie. We don't know how she should act. Presumptuously I say to them, "Oh, I'm sure ROMAN would just want her to be natural." The parents grasp on to this straw and I sort of wink and nod to establish myself as a fount of wisdom, though I've met the man precisely twice.

He walks past and greets me (looking unchanged from one of the only times I ever met him, at a dinner party at Sumet's house, when my mother became starstruck because of Rosemary's Baby) and to my surprise remembers who I am. He's carrying this script under his arm. He's wearing a tweed jacket.

I ask to see the sides (script pages) and to my amazement, the script has tipped in, full color, near-photographic storyboards next to each line of dialogue, and they are pictures of THIS little girl. I don't think you have anything to worry about, I tell the family. He obviously already sees her in the role.

But as I look up, on dozens of park benches scattered randomly under the dome of central park, dozens of little girls are studying scripts containing storyboards representing their own image, and all are emoting wildly, with varying degress of success....

And well then I woke up.